


Listen to the fireplace roar

by Builder



Series: Nat on Fire [10]
Category: Captain America, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Christmas, Eating Disorders, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-25 06:02:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21811267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: “It was me or rehab, remember?”  He tries to put a big hand on her shoulder, probably in a comforting gesture, but to Nat it feels like a combination of repressive and repulsive.  Probably because she’s so bony in comparison.
Series: Nat on Fire [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/796122
Comments: 8
Kudos: 28





	Listen to the fireplace roar

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr @builder051

Nat stands in front of the pantry, looking over tonight’s dinner options. Vodka, it seems. Always a good choice. It’s either that or a packet of ready rice, stamped with a bold expiry date somewhere firmly in 2017. She really should throw it out, but it gives her the false pretense of having food, should anyone do a welfare check on her. Not that anyone would. Plus, sometimes it’s fun to come home from missions achy and starving and get a thrill in the pit of her stomach when she sees the food, only then to remember that it’s unfit for human consumption.

Something rattles outside the door of Nat’s tiny apartment. She acts quickly despite the permanent tremor that’s taken up residence in her arms and hands, slamming the pantry door and reaching for the area on her belt line where her gun would be if she were properly on duty and armed. All she comes into contact with this time is a cell phone tucked into the pocket of her yoga pants, but she still pulls it out and prepares to use it as a weapon. She’s fairly sure she can launch it with enough accuracy to break the bridge of her adversary’s nose, and with one or two more well-executed punches and kicks, she could take him down. Take him out. Kill him. Whatever. Disposing of the body might need a little more thought, since she doesn’t have the muscle left on her bony body to drag a fully grown man out to the dumpsters behind the complex. But she’ll think of something. 

The doorknob rattles again, and the door to Nat’s apartment opens as much as the chain lock will allow.

“Hey,” calls a familiar friendly voice. “Let me in?”

Nat launches the phone, which sails right out the crack in the door and hits the intruder in the face. It doesn’t break his nose, but only because he’s made of tougher stuff than most of Nat’s opponents. 

“Wow,” says Steve, shaking his head as he slips his arm under the chain in an attempt to unlock the door from the outside in. The swish of grocery bags hits against his legs and the peeling paint on the door. “That was a great welcome.”

“Hm.” Nat refuses to say ‘sorry.’ Instead she goes with, “I forgot.”

“Not surprised.” Steve succeeds in unlocking the door, and he tumbles inside, spilling half a bag of hot cocoa mix and Oreos across the carpet. He sweeps up the groceries and piles them on the table with the rest of his goods: crackers and cheese, milk, cereal, and toothpaste. A mix of bachelor essentials and holiday indulgences. “It would have been easier if you would’ve let me order Instacart.”

“When did you stop paying attention, idiot?” Nat aims to smack him upside the head, but Steve easily ducks the hit. “Not allowed. Supposed to be off the grid.”

“Pretty sure the rules dropped off the table when you hit 90 pounds.” Steve easily captures Nat’s skinny wrist and gives her a light yank. She nearly drops the bottle of vodka as she bounces into him. 

“Fuck you.” Nat cradles the bottle like a baby, ignoring the quarter cup or so that slops onto the floor. 

“Whoops,” Steve says anyway.”

“It’s sanitary,” Nat insists.

“Never said it wasn’t.”

“Why’re you here, anyway?”

“Don’t tell me you really forgot?” Steve takes a step back, looking floored.

“That’s what I said, right?”

“But I thought you only said that because you remembered…” Steve shakes his head. “Never mind.” He takes a breath. “What did you weigh in at this morning?”

“Why should I tell you?” Nat’s eyes narrow. She also looks seedily at the pile of food on the kitchen table. She doesn’t binge anymore. She doesn’t eat anymore. Just drinks, sometimes smokes. Her brain is fuzzy. She’d kill for a shot of vodka and a cigarette, first for the jolt, then for the excuse to drift and not feel for a while.

“You tell me, I’ll tell you?” Steve offers. “Fair trade?”

“Fine.” Nat’s practically forgotten what she’s agreed too. “Eighty six.”

“Well, that’s better than yesterday, right?” Steve grins at her. 

“Depends on your perspective,” Nat growls. “Now you.” She lifts her chin in a prompting motion.

“It was me or rehab, remember?” He tries to put a big hand on her shoulder, probably in a comforting gesture, but to Nat it feels like a combination of repressive and repulsive. Probably because she’s so bony in comparison.

“Oh.” Nat doesn’t remember. Well, she does, sort of. The powwow they’d had in Fury’s office, the stony face she’d held, sucking in her cheeks and biting her lip so she wouldn’t cry. It had probably made her look even thinner and more pathetic. That had probably been the final straw, that contorted face. Not her actual bottoming out at 82 on her last SHIELD physical. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Steve pours himself a glass of milk, then gets out a second glass for Nat. 

Nat almost laughs. Almost. Until she realizes Steve’s sincere, and then she feels a bit like crying again. Not like she did back in Fury’s office, not because she was going to be in trouble, but because she’s not. She’s almost in the opposite of trouble. Funny, though. She doesn’t feel the opposite. 

“No,” Nat breathes. She finds the vodka bottle on the edge of the kitchen table. She takes a deep swig, stuffing her mouth with so much liquid she can barely swallow. When she does, the burning fluid immediately comes rushing back up. She slaps a hand over her mouth and turns on her heel, throwing herself over the kitchen sink and gagging hard.

“Hey, it’s ok.” Steve pats her on the back as Nat brings up vodka and stomach acid and all the nothing she’s eaten for the past two or three days. 

By the time she’s done, she’s ready to fall over. Steve eases her to the floor, folding Nat’s tiny frame in his strong arms. 

“Fuck you. Let me go,” Nat coughs.

“Yup,” Steve says, though he doesn’t loosen his grip. “I will. As soon as you’re ok.” 

“I am ok.”

“I know. You will be.”

Nat sighs, her throat burning with the taste of bile. She hates herself, and she hates him even more. Because she knows he’s right. 

Merry Fucking Christmas.


End file.
